


The Figurehead

by artfulinanities



Series: Who We Are [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Animal Death, Caring Sebastian, Character Development, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Mild OoC, Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t give you anything,” Moriarty snarled, jerking his wrists free. “I don’t give people things. I take and I possess and I consume, because there is nothing in this world that I won’t eventually own, nothing I won’t do to get my hands on the things I want most.”</p>
<p>“Do you want me?” Moran ran his fingers through his hair, sitting back onto the desk of the surveillance room. </p>
<p>The consulting criminal giggled, eyes mad and bright. “I want to tear you apart and watch you bleed and know that, when I put you back together again, you won’t be the same as before; you’ll be broken and scarred and mine because I made you that way.”</p>
<p>“That what happened to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Figurehead

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> This fic started as an awful, ambiguous nightmare that I had during the ungodly hours of the morning, so I did what any sane person would do: I grabbed a laptop and I wrote. So...it's unbeta'd. Hope there's no reaaaalllly bad mistakes.
> 
> The story is definitely darker than some other things I've written, so please bear with me. Also not the pairing I'm used to writing, but it fit best with these particular characters. Some OOC in there for Jim and John, but it had to be done.
> 
> Aaaand in case anyone was wondering, I've jumped on the Michael Fassbender ship for Seb Moran. Yeeeahhhh....
> 
> I don't own any of these characters; BBC has the rights to these incarnations, but I was quite happy to write about them. :)
> 
> A quick reading note: italics and underlined are Jim's thoughts, italics and bold are Sherlock's in the pool scene, italics on their own are flashbacks or emphasized declarations, italics in quotation marks are for emphasis. Phew. I almost confused myself there.  
> I hope you enjoy! Thanks for taking the time to stop by!!

There was something comforting about the weight of a kitten in his arms. It was warm and soft and so unbelievably tiny; it made him feel powerful and protective. He was responsible for another life, for another living, breathing, _thing_. It was heady and frightening all at once, so he sat there, with the purring kitten in his lap, small fingers carding through the downy fur, eyes wide as he took in everything about his new friend.

 

Friend. Yes, that sounded nice.

 

“James?”

 

He froze, fingers suspended over the slumbering ball of fluff still nestled on his thighs, his pulse ringing in his ears. He couldn’t lose another one, he just couldn’t.

 

“I’m here,” he choked out, lifting the kitten from its perch and tucking it into a shoe box under his bed. The boy jammed the box into the back corner, praying that his friend would stay asleep just a little longer. A commanding figure darkened the doorway, blue eyes flat and unforgiving behind clean lenses as they raked over the slight boy’s trembling frame.

 

“Have you finished your studies, James?” the man asked, fingers dancing absently along the wooden doorframe.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And your chores?” Tap, tap, tap against the hinges.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And the experiments?” Tap, tap, tap against the latch.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good boy,” the man murmured, stepping into the room and ruffling the boy’s dark hair, a thin smile stretching his face. James smiled, hoping that he would leave, that he wouldn’t linger, hands wandering, eyes appraising. He hoped that he would slip back through the doorway and forget about the quiet boy in the attic room until tomorrow.

 

“ _Mrow?_ ”

 

Time stopped; his hopes were shattered.

 

“What,” the man asked, fingers tightening in the boy’s hair. “Was that?” James sealed his lips together, trembling as the long fingers dug their blunt nails into his scalp. Strong hands threw him to the ground, a cold tone freezing him in place. “I asked you a question, James, and I expect you to answer it.”

 

“I found it, sir. It was all alone and I thought –”

 

“You _thought_ ,” the man scoffed, squatting in front of the trembling child, lips contorting into a slick grin. “You don’t think, James. That’s my job. And what’s yours?”

 

“T-to follow orders,” he squeaked, scrambling back into the corner. The man nodded, rising to his feet.

 

“Get rid of it.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“Kill it. Affection is weakness and weakness is failure; a pressure point. Are you a failure, James?” The boy shook his head vehemently, scrambling for the box under the bed and racing out into the night. James watched the cardboard casket sink into the pond behind the house, numb and empty. He didn’t cry.

 

He didn’t cry when large hands folded over slender shoulders and pulled him back inside.

 

He didn’t cry when his hips locked and his legs cramped.

 

He didn’t cry when the door closed, darkness swallowing him whole.

 

He just lay there, the frantic mewling of his friend ringing in his ears as sleep eluded him.

 

***

 

There were tailors and tutors, acting coaches and accountants, mob bosses and managers, public schools and politics, and there was him. James sat in the corner, watching, waiting, whiling away the hours with a notepad and a pencil, learning the ins and outs of the world he would inherit.

 

“Do you know why there is still a monarchy, James?” Hands on his jaw, in his hair.

 

“No, sir.” Eyes open, unseeing.

 

“Because people want a face to follow, a name to utter, a title to _revere_.” Fingers on his collar, between his buttons, at his waistband.

 

“Why, sir?” Mouth gaping, mute.

 

“They want to believe in a power greater than themselves, but the monarchy is only a figurehead. Do you know who holds the _real_ power, James?” Lips on his pulse point, the knobs of his spine, fastened to his earlobe.

 

“No, sir.” Fingers splayed, limp.

 

“The man behind the scenes. That’s the trick, you see: ‘pay no attention to the man behind the curtain’.” Teeth at his neck, his scapulae, clamped against his bare shoulder.

 

“Yes, sir.” Eyes closed, praying.

 

“Yes, _Professor,_ James. The game will soon begin.” Nails under his skin, blood running down his legs.

 

“Yes, Professor.” Face down. Always face down.

 

A shameful secret kept hidden under the cover of darkness and masked by cotton sheets.

 

***

 

James wiped the blood from his nose, staring at the vivid stain on the crisp white cuff of his uniform. Something dark and deadly brewed inside him, settling into his muscles and constricting his lungs.

 

He took the cream without a second thought.

 

He mixed the thick white paste around and around in the jar, a quiet calm settled low in his gut.

 

He put the jar back and waited.

 

He watched as Carl sank beneath the water, slipping away from the crowd.

 

He took the shoes and the cream.

 

He threw up in the loo.

 

People always told him that you remember your first, that they held a special place in your heart. Carl Powers was his first human murder.

 

Yes, that was something to be remembered for a long time.

 

***

 

James straightened his tie, face impassive as he took in his reflection. His eyes were dead, staring out with the same flat expression that haunted his dreams. He smoothed his hair back; an actor putting the finishing touches on their character. Large hands settled on his back, winding up over his shoulders and down across his chest, pulling at his lapels and sliding his tie out of place.

 

“Are you ready, James?” Hot breath against his ear, soft hair against his nape.

 

“Yes, Professor.” His voice was empty, hollow.

 

“Oh, come now, boy. Let’s give it a bit more.” The hands slipped away, leaving gentle creases in the dark fabric in their wake. James smoothed them out, turning to face the man behind him. His own face stretched, his eyes widened, a mad gleam slipping into his gaze. He tucked his hands into his pockets, his posture relaxed yet commanding. The man nodded, approving, circling the young man, his fingers brushing over wrist and cheek and neck.

 

“Good. Very good,” he purred, stepping back with an oily grin. “Now, the introduction.”

 

James rearranged his features, schooling his expression into something bored and aloof. He’d practiced it a million times, parroted the lines to a mirror and bathed in the sound of a voice that wasn’t his own, absorbing the persona into his skin until he had consumed it, merged with it, letting it settle into the marrow of his bones. He blinked at the man, tilting his head to one side.

 

“Jim Moriarty. Hiii.”

 

***

 

“I-I-I’m s-so-so-sorry, s-s-ir,” the man babbled, cowering at Jim’s feet. He sighed, rising from his chair and planting one custom-made leather shoe on the groveling man’s skull.

 

“What have I told you about failure?” He ground his heel into the man’s scalp, mashing his forehead into the floor with a grim smile.

 

“T-that-that –” he stammered, hands clawing at the stained rug beneath him.

 

“Ugh. Boooring. I hate it when people stutter,” Jim drawled, kicking the man aside. “A. Waste. Of. My. Time,” he growled, snapping his fingers. A gunshot rang through the room, the bullet burrowing deep into the man’s grey matter: a cozy nest of flesh and bone for the lonely projectile. “Just like you.”

 

“Very good, James. Very good.” Slow applause filled the ramshackle space, drifting out of the shadows.

 

“Thank you, Professor,” Jim nodded, staring at the growing pool of blood on the disgusting carpet. He was going to have to get that cleaned, soon.

 

***

 

Jim had always found scars fascinating. They were evidence of a person’s stupidity, a testament to their bravery, a legacy of their adventures written across the blank canvas of skin. He’d carved people up, watching as flesh split under the weight of a blade or exploded in the wake of a bullet, bleeding over the grey carpet as they screamed. If he let them live – _if_ ; what power that word held – he would watch their skin knit itself back together, layer by layer, until it was whole again. But it was never the same as it was before. No, it was _better_. It was flawed and imperfect and _real_ in a world filled with pristine suits and slicked-back hair and flawless masks that gave away nothing but a fleeting impression of humanity, leaving him empty and wanting.

 

The military man tied to a concrete pillar in the warehouse had scars. Lots of scars, all over his body: his hands, his arms, his chest, his legs, and a glorious imperfection adorning his rugged face. He was bruised and battered and bloody and _perfect_. His eyes were defiant, his jaw proud as Jim sauntered to his side, grinning down at the dishonourably discharged sniper.

 

“Helloooo, Colonel Sebastian Moran. Fancy meeting you here, hmmm?”

 

“The fuck d’you want?” Moran spat, blue eyes bleached to silver in the grey light leaking through the warehouse windows. He sat, illuminated and fierce, as Jim lurked in the shadows. It was dramatic and poetic, just the way he’d planned.

 

“I have a…proposition for you,” he purred, extending one perfectly manicured hand into the light, fingers pale and spectral as they hovered in front of Moran’s face. “Join me. I have use for a man of your talents.”

 

The ropes were cut and the soldier was freed. He rose to his feet and stared at the small hand, contemplative. Finally, he smiled, the silver scar stretching, sliding his hand into the consulting criminal’s with a deep laugh.

 

***

 

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering over the monitors as he sipped his coffee. Every so often, he would shift, the chair squeaking beneath him. It was quiet and _boring_.

 

“Helooooo, Sebby.” The sniper closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. Damn.

 

“Told you not to call me that, Boss,” he sighed, turning to look at the short man in the dark Westwood lounging casually against the door.

 

“And I told you that your opinions don’t matter,” Moriarty chirped, striding into the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Now, how aaaare we doing today?”

 

“Same old,” he shrugged, jerking his chin at the monitor. “Might want to look into this Black Lotus thing, though. Smuggling ring from China looking for a way into Britain.”

 

“Hm, yes. I’ve been keeping an eye on them.” Jim leaned over the back of the sniper’s chair, squinting at the screen with a bored expression. The black-eyed man smelled of spice and smoke, soft and alluring. Moran blinked, taking a sip of his coffee to clear his head.

 

“I need you to go take care of a little something for me, Sebby,” Jim crooned, grinning down at his employee with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Will you pretty please with a cherry on top go assassinate a politician for me? I had a request come in this morning and I’m oh so _very_ busy,” he pouted, head tipped to the side.

 

“Fine.” Moran rolled his eyes, sliding out of the chair and downing the dregs of his coffee in one gulp. It was a job, at least, instead of manning the surveillance room like a glorified security guard.

 

He left, his fingers itching for the trigger of his gun.

 

***

 

“I’ve got the shot, Boss,” Moran breathed, tapping his earpiece as he kept their target in his sight.

 

“Do it.”

 

The woman fell, a gruesome bindi marring her face, and Moran sighed, packing up his gear.

 

“Very good, boy,” a strange voice floated down the line, giving the sniper pause.

 

“Thank you, Professor.” Jim’s reply was stale, his words lifeless. There was none of his usual dramatic flair, just clipped, short syllables and the faint rustle of fabric before this line went dead.

 

***

 

There was something about Moriarty that didn’t sit right with Moran. He watched the shorter man parade around like the drama queen that he was, creating theatrical entrances and daring exits, listened to endless hours of fluctuating monologues until he wanted to perforate his own eardrums with a toothpick, and ran absolutely _useless_ errands for the madman. Who the fuck needed Belgian chocolate directly from a back ally chocolatier _in_ _Belgium_ at 2 am on a Wednesday?

 

Crazy errands, he could handle; monologues were annoying, but manageable; staging scenes out of a bad Bond movie was cliché, but tolerable. The most terrifying thing about Moriarty was his hair-trigger temper. He went from cold but cuddly sociopath to furious and foaming at the mouth psychopath between one breath and the next. It was enough to make a grown man cry for his mother.

 

“We almost had it, _señor_. It was just –”

 

Jim held up one hand, cutting the drug lord off. “Pablo,” he purred, smiling wide. “Pablo, Pablo, Pablo. Daddy’s had enough now. I gave you _one_ job. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Moriarty clicked his tongue, pouting.

 

“No, _señor_. We –”

 

The gunshot was loud and angry, the man’s head exploding violently as Moriarty pressed the barrel to his forehead and squeezed the trigger. He watched the cartel leader’s corpse topple over, blood pooling on the stained grey carpet of their meeting room. Jim passed the gun back to Moran, patting the blood from his face with a handkerchief, his eyes flat.

 

“Now,” he looked up at the cartel members cowering in the corner. “Whoever takes Pablo’s place had better not dissssapoint meee,” he hissed, shooting the men a chilling smile. “Are we clear? Good. _Leave_.” They scrambled away, leaving the body abandoned on the floor.

 

“Two-hundred and thirty-five,” Jim offered, wiping at his cheek.

 

“What?” Moran blinked, holstering the gun.

 

“Two-hundred and thirty-five people, Sebby. All with my own two hands,” he laughed, waggling the offending appendages. His eyes were too wide, his smile too large.

 

“Oh. Um, five-hundred and twenty,” Sebastian mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

 

“Five-hundred and twenty-one,” Moriarty deadpanned, dropping a folder into the sniper’s arms before striding out of the room, red splotches decorating the front of his bespoke suit.

 

“Five-hundred and twenty-one,” he whispered, heading off to grab his gun.

 

***

 

Moriarty would disappear without any rhyme or reason, popping up a few days later with another list of people to kill and a post-it note covered in the names of organizations he planned to take over.

 

Sometimes, he would be limping, his gait lacking its usual ease. Other times, his ties sat a little higher than usual or his cuffs were a little longer.

 

At first, Moran thought nothing of it, leaving the genius to his crazy comings and goings.

 

But there were cups of coffee waiting for him in the surveillance room, imported packs of cigarette stuffed into his boots, and new gadgets tucked away with his equipment.

 

So he watched, day after day, week after week, until all of the dots were connected. He saw the bruises poking out from under a crisp white collar and he knew.

 

Jim Moriarty was on his way to controlling the world, but somewhere, somehow, someone in the world controlled Jim Moriarty.

 

***

 

Jim sat slumped in his chair, the sniper at his feet, scarred hands cupping his own. Moran helped him sit back, straightening his shirt and righting his fly with short, jerky movements. Sebastian pulled one wrist forward, snagging a first aid kit and bandaging the scarlet crescent moons carved into his skin.

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

“Who is he?”

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

“The man behind the mask.”

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

The gleam of scissors distracted him, Moran slicing through the end of the bandage and fastening it with a sharp growl. Jim let his other hand be guided into place and the process began again.

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

“Why d’you let him do this?”

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

‘Round and around and around.

 

***

 

Sebastian leapt out of bed when he heard the gunshots ring through the flat. Bare chested with a pair of track pants hanging from his hips, he raced towards the meeting room, throwing open the door and jerking back at the scene awaiting him.

 

Jim toed at one of the bodies slumped over on the floor, gun still clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Flecks of crimson decorated his skin: grisly freckles scattered across his cheekbones. Moran stepped into the room, whistling between his teeth. “Bad day, Boss?” Empty black eyes greeted him, dead and haunted. One of the bodies twitched and Moriarty put another bullet in it, never taking his eyes off of the sniper.

 

“Two-hundred and forty-one,” he murmured, staring down at the bleeding corpses. A man burst through the other door, swearing violently in Russian when his gaze fell on the bodies. Jim raised the gun and fired, hitting the man between the eyes. The body fell to the floor, a bright red explosion decorating the wall behind it.

 

“Two-hundred and forty-two.”

 

***

 

The world was a giant, tangled mess of contradictions and conflicting opinions that made Jim’s head hurt.

 

People that the world had decided were good held a darkness inside of them that made his skin crawl.

 

Vulnerable people who demanded protection were the ones who hurt you the most and left the deepest scars.

 

The richest people on the planet led the poorest lives.

 

The smartest people on the planet were complete and total idiots.

 

“Sebby, why does the world have to be so confusing?” The sniper glanced at the consulting criminal from his perch on the desk, setting aside his gun and rag with a frown.

 

“The fuck you talking about, Boss?”

 

“The world…it’s so… _backwards_. I don’t want to be backwards.”

 

“You’re not backwards; you’re insane. There’s a difference,” Moran tsked, sauntering over to lean against the back of Jim’s chair, brown hair in disarray.

 

“People who are insane don’t know that they are. If I can admit that I’m crazy, doesn’t that make me sane?”

 

“Probably,” Sebastian laughed, low and dark. “Maybe we’re all a little crazy. I mean, you are trying to take over the world.”

 

“Hm,” Jim nodded, resting his chin on one hand. “I never wanted the world.”

 

Moran frowned, glancing down at his boss. The man looked younger, open and soft, almost childish in his brooding. “What do you want?”

 

Jim laughed, a sick and twisted keening sound that chilled Sebastian to the bone. “I wanted a kitten,” he giggled, running a trembling hand over his lips. He looked at Moran with an odd expression, eyebrows tilted and mouth lax. “Have you ever killed one of your friends, Sebby? I killed all of mine, and he told me I was a _good boy_ for doing it. But I don’t feel very good; I just feel backwards.”

 

He wondered why chapped lips felt so soft against his own.

 

He wondered why the rough callouses from handling lethal guns were far more gentle against his skin than the ones earned from hours wielding an unassuming pen while seated at a desk.

 

He wondered why the rasp of stubble against his chest was more welcome that the whisper of a neatly trimmed beard.

 

He wondered why bloodstained hands stripped away the taint from his body while clean hands left him tarnished and corrupted.

 

He wondered why a wanted assassin made him feel safe in his arms while a renowned journalist threatened him with every brush of his fingers or smile on his lips.

 

The world really was backwards. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

***

 

“Here, James. I have a problem for you to take care of.” He slid the photograph across his desk, a pale, curly-haired man and a short, blonde man staring back at Jim.

 

“Who are they, Professor?” The scratch of a pen grated against his nerves, but he kept his mask in place, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

 

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. They’re in my way. I don’t have enough data for their pressure points yet. Be a good boy, James, and get rid of them for me.” He smiled at Jim, thin and imploring, dead eyes sweeping over him from head to toe.

 

“Yes, Professor.”

 

***

 

“What,” Jim narrowed his eyes at the green box with the gold ribbon, turning slowly to look at the sniper. “The _fuck_ is that, Sebby?”

 

“A gift, Boss,” Moran puffed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He took another drag of his cigarette as the consulting criminal slunk towards the box, poking at it with the gilded sword that he’d stolen from a museum a few weeks back because ‘it’s shiny and I want it, okay?’. Damn magpie.

 

Satisfied that the box wasn’t going to explode, Jim unfastened the ribbon and removed the lid, his entire body going ramrod straight as he uncovered the contents. The shorter man reached into the emerald box, scooping a squeaking ball of orange fluff from its depths, cuddling the kitten to his chest. It blinked up at him, wide blue eyes fixed on the one strand that had managed to slip loose from his slicked-back hair. Tiny white paws batted at his face, cuffing the consulting criminal on the chin as the kitten mewled and wriggled, downy fur sticking up every which way.

 

“What…”

 

“I’m cheap. Kitten’s easier to get your hands on than the world, so,” Sebastian shrugged, smothering his cigarette butt in the ash tray. Jim stared at him, absently scratching between the kitten’s ears and laughing softly when it began to purr, paws kneading the lapels of his Westwood. “Good?” Moran cocked a brow, head tipped to the side.

 

Moriarty snorted, flipping the kitten in his arms and stroking under its chin. “It will help keep me from getting booored,” he drawled, letting the ball of fluff chew on his fingers. “But you’re taking care of the dry-cleaning.”

 

“Yes, Boss.”

 

***

 

Sebastian dangled the string over the arm of the chair, feet kicked up on the surveillance desk, smirking at the blue eyes gleaming in the shadows. He gave the red yarn a twitch with his fingers, laughing as the kitten came barreling out from under the desk and pounced on the string. The sniper scooped the kitten onto his lap, letting it claw at his dog tags, turning his attention back to the monitors.

 

“Sebby, have you seen…oh.”

 

“Boss,” Moran nodded, holding the kitten aloft like the Lion King, humming “Circle of Life” under his breath.

 

“Put Tiger down,” Moriarty sighed, straightening his cuffs. “He’s not a toy.”

 

“Says the man who sits in his desk chair and spins around with the cat in his lap saying, ‘I’ve been expecting you’,” the sniper scoffed, settling the kitten against his shoulder. “You know your accent is awful?”

 

“So’s you’re impression of that horrible man in the Terminator films,” Jim grumbled, rescuing his pet from the lounging sniper. “Go kill something. You’re no fun when you’re bored.”

 

“Yes Boss,” Moran grinned, sauntering from the room. He paused on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. Jim stilled, locking eyes with the taller man.

 

“Don’t you dare –”

 

“I’ll be back,” Sebastian deadpanned, scurrying from the room as a coffee mug crashed against the doorframe.

 

***

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, fingers white against the black cotton of the sniper’s t-shirt.

 

“What do you mean?” Moran ran his hands up and down the smaller man’s forearms, feeling the shift from fabric to skin and back again; sleeve to wrist to sleeve.

 

“ _This_ ,” he tightened his grip, pulling their bodies together. “I don’t know how to do ‘normal,’ Sebby.”

 

“Nothing about my life is normal, Boss.”

 

Jim laughed, high and shrill, his eyes fever-bright as he stared at the sniper. He shoved the taller man back, beating his fists against Sebastian’s chest. “You.” Thump. “Don’t.” Thump. “Understand.” Thump. “Anything.” Thump. “At.” Thump. “All!” Thump. Moran looped his fingers around Jim’s wrists, light and loose, but the gentle pressure was enough to still his shaking limbs.

 

“Mind explaining, then? I’m not a fuckin’ psychic,” he chuckled, mouth quirked.

 

“I can’t give you anything,” Moriarty snarled, jerking his wrists free. “I don’t _give_ people things. I take and I possess and I _consume_ , because there is nothing in this world that I won’t eventually own, nothing I won’t do to get my hands on the things I want most.”

 

“Do you want me?” Moran ran his fingers through his hair, sitting back onto the desk of the surveillance room.

 

The consulting criminal giggled, eyes mad and bright. “I want to tear you apart and watch you bleed and know that, when I put you back together again, you won’t be the same as before; you’ll be broken and scarred and _mine_ because _I_ made you that way.”

 

“That what happened to you?”

 

His answer came with teeth and tongue and hot, wet heat; bruising fingers on tight muscle and bony joints digging into pliant skin. Sebastian rolled with it, letting himself be consumed.

 

There wasn’t much of a man left to take over, anyway.

 

***

 

“His voice…” the woman croaked, unseeing eyes staring out the window at Moran.

 

“Shoot her. Shoot her now,” Moriarty snapped, voice shrill over the line.

 

“It was so…soft.” Moran pulled the trigger and the phone tap went dead, the building exploding across the way.

 

“I…oh, God. Come back, Sebby. _Now_.”

 

Black fatigues and shreds of a bespoke suit littered the floor, smooth hands and rough palms gliding over slick skin.

 

“I never wanted the world,” Jim growled, shuddering and panting on Sebastian’s lap. His nails left marks, perfect white crescents on tan limbs; his teeth broke the skin, dark and livid oblong ovals on the swell of muscle; his hands left bruises, gripping too tight and pulling too hard.

 

“What do you want?” Moran braced the consulting criminal’s hips, rolling into the trembling man with slow, languid movements.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

***

 

Glass clinked against glass as Jim captured a pawn from the man seated across from him, his fingers wrapping around the clear chess piece. Another pawn took its place, and another, and another until a pile of bodies littered the table top beside the board.

 

“Well done, James. You’re getting better at this game.”

 

“Thank you, Professor.” Another pawn was dropped into the pile unceremoniously, the mound of corpses never warranting a second glance.

 

“You’ll want to be careful, though, boy,” the man murmured, sliding his bishop across the checked tiles. “Or you’ll lose your knight.”

 

“My mistake,” Jim shrugged, capturing the bishop with his rook.

 

“Yes,” the man sighed, blue eyes boring into the consulting criminal. “Yes it was.”

 

***

 

“Do you know what happens, if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

 

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.”

 

“Kill you? Mm, no, don’t be obvious. I’m going to kill you anyway, someday.” Jim watched the consulting detective’s eyes narrow, his grip shifting on the butt of the gun. They spoke without words, a conversation in facial expressions and body language.

 

**_What are you playing at?_ **

 

“I don’t want to rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something _special._ No, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”

 

_ I don’t want to do this anymore. This game. It will end us both. _

 

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Pale eyes shifting, a sharp breath from the doctor.

 

**_I do have a heart. And so do you, isn’t that right?_ **

 

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” A subtle shrug, thinned lips.

 

_ I have one, and it’s in danger. So is yours. Funny, how these things work. _

 

“Well, I’d better be off,” Jim chirped. “It was so nice to have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Catch. You. Later.” Wide eyes, tense shoulders.

 

**_I can fix this, if you let me. I’ll take the case._ **

“No you won’t,” he chanted, disappearing around the corner.

 

_ A bit late for that, Sherlock. Hard to solve a case that’s already closed. _

 

***

 

“Sorry, boys, I’m sooooo changeable. It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair, it is my _only_ weakness.”

 

_ That’s a lie. I have a weakness. His name is Sebastian. _

 

But this thought remained private, locked away as the gun was leveled at a loaded vest. A secret taken to the grave.

***

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello, James. I hope everything is going well at the pool,” a familiar voice purred, clawing at his control.

 

“Yes. Of course it is. What do you want?” Breathe. Even and deep. Breathe.

 

_ Why are you doing this  _ now _?_

“Your little sniper was just telling me all about your standoff,” the warm tone made his blood run cold, fear churning in his stomach.

 

“Say that again!” he screamed, pressing the phone to his ear. “Say that again and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will _skiiiiin_ you.”

 

_ Please don’t hurt him. _

“Oh, don’t worry, James. He’s perfectly fine. Now, be a good boy and come home, now. We have some things to discuss,” the man drawled, Moran’s gasp crackling through the speaker.

 

Jim dropped the phone from his ear, looking up at Sherlock and letting the mask fall away. “Sorry. Wrong day to die,” he intoned, dead words hanging in the chlorine scented air.

 

“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” The consulting detective flinched, seeing the real Moriarty before the mask was back and James disappeared.

 

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” He placed the phone against his ear, turning and sauntering away from the pool with forced composure while every muscle in his body was twitching with the need to run back to Moran. “So if you have what you say you have, I’ll make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.”

 

_ I’ll do what you want, just let him go.  _

 

***

 

He fisted his hands in the sheets, his fingers numb from clutching the fabric after hours spent on all fours. He ached from head to toe: his scalp bled and his throat was raw; his back was scored with long red lines and his hips were framed with bruises; his legs were black and blue, the muscles cramped from their sedentary position; his wrists and ankles were chaffed from the restraints, hemp cord unorthodox and unforgiving as it bit into the skin.

 

“Do you understand why you’re being reprimanded, James?” Sharp thrusts, punctuating every word.

 

“Yes, Professor.”

 

“Such a good boy, James. Just follow the rules and everything will be okay.” A shudder and a flood of warmth, the kiss of cold air as he was abandoned on the bed.

 

Finally, it was over.

 

“Jim?” Calloused hands on a fevered brow. It felt nice. Jim leaned into the touch, sighing.

 

It was over. Sebastian was safe.

 

***

 

Jim towled his hair dry, wrapping the terrycloth around his waist as he sauntered into the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the healing mosaic on his skin. He ran his fingers along the sickly yellow bruises and rusty lines, picking at the scabs until his arms and chest were smeared with red.

 

“Jim!” Sebastian grabbed his hands, pulling them away from his bleeding torso. “What the fuck, Jim?”

 

“I don’t want to wear it anymore,” he whinged, eyes rimmed with deep shadows. “I don’t. Please, Sebby.”

 

“Wear what?” Moran snapped, keeping his hold on the struggling man.

 

“This _mask_! I’m not me anymore! I don’t know where Jim Moriarty ends and James Moriarty begins!”

 

“Jim –”

 

“ _I’M NOT JIM!_ ” he screamed, thrashing against his second in command. “I’m James…I want to be _James_ again…I’m not this-this-this _thing_ that can kill people and not feel anything. I’ve only killed _one_ person because I wanted to. Everyone else was a pawn in the game,” he laughed, his knees giving out. Sebastian caught him, sliding them both to the floor. “It’s just a game to him. ‘All the world’s a stage/And all the men and women merely players’…I don’t want to play anymore.”

 

Moran sat there, Moriarty’s face buried in the crook of his neck, pale hands limp around his waist. The sniper settled his hand in the consulting criminal’s hair, murmuring softly.

 

Well, shit.

 

***

 

Moran leaned back against the mantle, staring at the skull grinning up at him from the opposite corner. How very like the consulting detective. Heavy footfalls sounded outside the door and he steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation, knowing that the good doctor wouldn’t let Moriarty’s right-hand man waltz into their home uninvited.

 

Sherlock Holmes opened the door first, spying Sebastian before inhaling to call down the stairs to his partner. Sounding the alarm, then. Moran reached for the handgun tucked into his waistband, fingers twitching as the detective began to speak.

 

“John, we have a client. Tea?”

 

Oh.

 

The ex-army doctor appeared in the doorway, raising a brow at Sebastian’s presence. “Took you long enough. Milk or sugar?”

 

_OH._

 

“Just milk, thanks. You don’t seem surprised t’see me,” he quipped, narrowing his eyes at the doctor and the detective. The latter shed his Belstaff and scarf, flopping into a low chair, hands folded in prayer beneath his chin. John puttered about in the kitchen, glancing through the doorway at the sniper.

 

“I recognized you, when you strapped that bomb to my chest at the pool. You’re from Afghanistan. Nice shot, by the way.” John rolled his shoulder, raising a brow. Damn. No wonder Holmes kept him around.

 

Moran ducked his head, gesturing to the scar on his face. “Serves you right for the bar fight before shipping out. Nice shot, by the way.” They laughed, tea changing hands as John settled into the red arm chair.

 

“So,” Sherlock leveled Moran with a stare, pale eyes deducing him as he sipped his tea. The doctor made an excellent cuppa. “Do enlighten me as to why a dishonourably discharged military sniper, wanted Interpol assassin, and right-hand man to one of the most notorious criminal masterminds of our era is drinking tea in our sitting room.”

 

“Professor James Moriarty,” he replied, shifting his weight.

 

“The mathematics professor?” John set his mug aside, frowning. Moran nodded, scuffing one boot against the rug. Were those…scorch marks?

 

“No, that’s just an alias; one of many. Professor James Moriarty is a genius; the man behind the mask,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward in his seat. “The _real_ Moriarty. But why would you hand over the man who owns you on a silver platter?”

 

Sebastian stared into the cloudy depths of his tea, a frown creasing his brow. John sighed, laying a hand on the detective’s knee.

 

“Human error, Sherlock,” he explained, giving the appendage a light squeeze. “We’ll take the case.”

 

***

 

“Moran.”

 

The sniper turned, looking back up the steps to 221B Baker Street, eyes falling on the doctor. The blonde lounged halfway down the staircase, arms folded over his chest, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

 

“I saw the way you looked at him,” John murmured, eyes soft. “At the pool.”

 

Sebastian nodded stiffly, twirling a fag between his fingers.

 

“There’s more to this than Sherlock or I will ever know, but let me give you some advice: people like them, they need people like us. The rest of the world has been cruel and harsh, and they won’t trust easy, but even the most brilliant men need a conductor of light.” The doctor smiled, walking back up the stairs, leaving a very confused sniper in the entryway.

 

***

 

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.” The sniper jumped, spinning and glaring at the man in the posh suit sitting in Jim’s chair. Moran frowned as the man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began cleaning his glasses, effectively ignoring the man he’d just addressed.

 

“How the hell did you get in here?” Flat blue eyes flicked up to his face, long finger sliding the plain spectacles black into place.

 

“Oh. Now that’s interesting.” Thin lips stretched into a blank smile, sending shivers down the sniper’s spine. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you?”

 

“What –”

 

“Oh, ho, ho, yes. Very naughty. How very…perfect.” The man rose, refastening his jacket. “I have a job for you. I need information from this man.” He extended one arm, a slip of paper pinched between two fingers. “I want you to get it for me, in any way necessary.”

 

“You want me to torture him,” Moran hissed, glaring at the slip of paper. The man smiled again, dead eyes never leaving Sebastian’s face.

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“No.” He folded his arms over his chest, leveling his gaze on the intruder.

 

“Oh. Pity. I suppose I’ll just have James do it for me,” he inclined his head, tucking the slip of paper into his pocket. “He’s such a good boy.”

 

A sick roiling rocked Moran’s stomach as the man turned to leave, the sniper’s hair standing on end. “Wait.” The man paused, never turning to look back, but listening nonetheless. Sebastian swallowed, hanging his head, working his mouth and forcing the words out.

 

“I’ll do it. Leave the Boss out of it.”

 

“Oh, I knew you would.”

 

The slip of paper reappeared, dropped carelessly onto an end table as the man left. Moran stared at the white paper, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He glanced down at his palms, tracing the grooves with his eyes. There was a permanent stain coating his hands from gun oil and dirt; layers of his craft embedded into his skin.

 

What was a little more blood in the mix?

 

***

 

Jim braced himself against the headboard, palms flat against the dark wood, arms flexing as he bore down. His legs were shaking, his chest heaving; he could feel his heartbeat in every extremity, moaning as Sebastian pulled one leg higher, kissing the inside of his knee.

 

“God,” Moriarty growled, twitching his hips. “I swear I will shoot you if you don’t _get on with it_.”

 

“Bossy,” Sebastian chuckled, speeding up his thrusts. He rolled them over, letting the consulting criminal set the pace, hissing as trimmed nails dug into his chest. Small hands migrated upwards, settling in the hollow of his throat. Jim laid his fingers along the column of the sniper’s neck, one by one, increasing the pressure with each digit.

 

“I could, you know,” he murmured, leaning in. “I stopped Carl Powers; just me, all on my own. I almost stopped John Watson. What makes you think I wouldn’t stop you, too?”

 

Moran ran his hands along Jim’s thighs, taking shallow breaths as square thumbs dug into his trachea. He closed his eyes, letting his hands fall away, opening them again to look up at the small brunette. Realization dawned on Moriarty’s face, his fingers loosening.

 

“You’d _let_ me. Why?”

 

“Human error.”

 

***

 

Moran traced idle patterns into the canvas before him, letting the red paint drip over the dark material, his strokes calculated and precise. Every so often he would pause, stepping back to stare at the latticework of scarlet lines and purple spots, setting aside one tool for another.

 

It was coming along; the piece was almost complete. Just a few more adjustments and it would be finished.

 

“Oh, God. Please. I’ve told you everything. Please!”

 

Sebastian tightened his grip around the knife, slitting open trembling fingertips, face impassive. “Don’t lie to me. It will be so much worse.”

 

“I’m not lying! I’m not! Please!”

 

The sniper dragged the blade across one earlobe, watching the small flap of skin drop to the floor accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream.

 

Just a few more adjustments and it would be finished.

 

***

 

Jim enjoyed being surrounded by Sebastian, the sniper’s long limbs enveloping him as they fucked or pressing him up against the wall for a ‘good old fashioned snog’, hard body flush against his own. There was something deliciously satisfying about being enfolded into another person that way: protected and…revered. It was almost…normal.

 

He looped his arms over Moran’s chest, dragging a flannel over rusty skin, damp brown hair tickling his jaw. The taller man slumped back against the consulting criminal’s shoulder, staring off into the distance. Steam rose from the tub, filling the room with thick white clouds. Jim let the sound of skin against porcelain and the rhythmic lapping of water against brass taps wash over him, scrubbing at a particularly tenacious bloodstain. Sebastian twitched, scarred fingers flexing, his breath giving a small hitch.

 

“I think of them as sculptures or paintings,” he murmured, curling his hand around Jim’s knee.

 

“Why?” The smaller man leaned his cheek against the sniper’s hair, breathing in the deep scent of his shampoo.

 

“If I think of them as people, I’d have to put a bullet in my brain to erase their faces.”

 

“What about the war?” He dragged the flannel over taught forearms, tracing the outline of a shoulder tattoo with his nail.

 

“I put bullets in other people’s faces so that I wouldn’t know what they looked like while there was still light in their eyes.”

 

***

 

Sherlock handed over the small black bag, long fingers hooked under the straps. “Everything you’ll need,” he drawled, fishing his mobile from his pocket. The detective stripped off his gloves and tapped away at the screen, casting the occasional glance at the sniper. Sebastian watched the play of light across sharp cheekbones and slanted eyes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

 

“You’re sure this will work?”

 

“I’ve calculated there are 13 different possibilities for escape from the rooftop for either of us, however, there will need to be bodies for this to work.” Sherlock reached over and rapped his knuckles against the partition. “St. Bart’s,” he instructed, returning his attention to Moran. “As I said, though I detest repetition –”

 

“Sherlock,” John warned, shooting an apologetic smile at Moran. The detective sighed in fond exasperation, hand settling on the doctor’s thigh.

 

“As I said, everything you’ll need is in the bag. All other elements of our plan have gone off without a hitch to date. I take it the Professor has been keeping tabs on my imminent demise?”

 

“Yeah,” Sebastian rifled through the rucksack, nodding as he took inventory. “Somethin’ about pressure points. He gets Jim to give him regular reports. Ta for the coat for our kidnapper, by the way.”

 

“I have lots of coats.” A strange grin, stretching his face. Holmes was definitely an odd one.

 

“Kids are fine, got paid off. D’you have the paperwork?” John passed over an envelope, his eyes tight.

 

“Richard Brook. It’ll all in there.” Blunt fingers tapped the manila, nails bitten to the quick.

 

“Right. See you around, then,” Moran murmured, slipping from the vehicle as they drove through a blind spot in the CCTV, closing the door before melting into the shadows.

 

***

 

Jim rocked against Sebastian, quiet and unhurried, hands wandering over scarred knots, fingertips skimming sensitive skin; gentle, so gentle, as though he might break. Moran flipped them over, murmuring into the juncture between neck and shoulder, kissing his way along a topography of flexing tendons and thrumming veins. He took him apart, piece by piece, sucking bruises into pale skin and biting the arches of bones pressing against him.

 

He took him apart, over and over, then put him back together again, broken and scarred and…

 

“Mine,” he growled, sucking a bruise over one collar bone.

 

“Yessss.”

 

In the morning, they were quiet.

 

“Should we…talk about last night, Jim?”

 

Soft hands, blunt nails, warm tongues.

 

“No.”

 

Calloused palms, hot breath, narrow hips.

 

“Why?”

 

Slick skin, hard muscle, heavy breathing.

 

“I don’t have time for this right now, Sebby! I don’t! Just…leave.”

 

Shallow thrusts, whispered words, muffled screams.

 

“Okay.”

 

Ruined sheets, burning muscles, gasping lungs.

 

“I never wanted the world.”

 

Sleep-warmed skin, pliant bodies, tangled limbs.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Stolen gun, empty clip, padded jacket.

 

“I want it to _end_.”

 

Blood packets, custom ring tones, midnight texts.

 

Lazarus is go.

 

***

 

“Here. You’ll be needing these.” John smiled tightly, passing off the rucksacks to the men in the black saloon. “Molly and Mycroft have taken care of the rest.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” Jim took the bag, running his fingers over the straps.

 

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes believes in you. So don’t _fuck this up_ or I will _kill_ you for real this time and you. Will. Not. Come. Back,” he snarled, shoving Moriarty back against the bench. “God, just…why? I know it wasn’t you, but _why_? Why do I have to let him go gallivanting off across the country because _you_ weren’t brave enough to kill that _bastard_ yourself? What did he have over you that was so powerful that you couldn’t just _shoot him and walk away_?”

 

Jim shivered as the doctor shoved him away, leaning into Moran. He floundered like a fish, jaw working, but no sound coming out. This wasn’t Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, or Richard Brook, struggling actor. This was James Moriarty, unmasked and unprepared for the reality of a world without his alter-ego.

 

“He’s my brother,” he whispered. “He’s all I have left.”

 

Sebastian growled, pulling Jim to his chest and burying his face in the smaller man’s hair.

 

“Right. Fine. Moran, just…go help Sherlock disable the network and then you can put a bullet in Professor Moriarty’s perverted brain.” An arched brow, an exasperated sigh. “I _am_ a doctor. I know the signs.”

 

Moran nodded, pulling Jim onto his lap. John slid across the bench, one hand on the door handle. He looked over his shoulder, meeting the sniper’s gaze.

 

“If he dies, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and make you regret the day you set foot in our home.”

 

He left, his words heavy in the stifling cabin.

 

***

 

“David? I’m calling in that favour you owe me. Let Annie know.”

 

“Right. This had better be worth it, Seb.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

***

 

In the end, it was Sherlock who put the bullet in Professor Moriarty’s brain. Of course, everyone else knew him as Charles Augustus Magnussen.

 

***

 

_I owe you a fall, Sherlock._

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

 

“They turned the plane around,” Mycroft drawled, phone cradled against his ear. A soft chuckle crackled on the other end of the line.

 

“Glad you enjoyed out little present,” Moran flicked off the telly, running a hand through Jim’s hair.

 

“Considered your debt paid. The agents will be along to collect you shortly. Do enjoy Canada.” Tap, tap, tap; the tip of an umbrella against the floor.

 

“And how are you going to keep Sherlock in London now that the Moriarty brothers no longer exist?” Tiger clawed at the aglets on Moran’s boots, gnawing at the plastic once he’d trapped in beneath his paws.

 

“You know as well as I do that the world never stays quiet for long. I imagine that Professor Moriarty just vacated a rather lucrative position that an usurper has been poised to take on for a long time, now.” Tap, tap, tap; fingers against glass.

 

“Yeah. It’s all in the file.”

 

“Don’t worry about us,” John called, his voice distorted through the line.

 

“Yes, we’ve managed quite well, here,” Sherlock added. “The charade took long enough, but we pulled it off. Obviously.”

 

“Be careful, Seb,” Mary warned, ever the stern older sister. Funny, the difference two letters can make to the average observer.

 

“Yes, Annie. Give my love to David and the little one.” He disconnected, tossing the burner into the skip outside their window. Jim wrapped his arms around the sniper, laying his forehead between cut shoulder blades and inhaling the scent of gun oil and sandalwood.

 

“I never wanted the world,” he chuckled, nuzzling the soft black cotton.

 

“What do you want?” Sebastian turned in the embrace, cupping the shorter man’s chin and tilting his face upwards for a kiss.

 

“You.”

 

~fin~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


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